


The Game

by HostisHumaniGeneris



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Human/Non-Human Relationship, Monster sex, Size Difference, Trick or Treat: Challenge Yourself, Trick or Treat: Treat, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HostisHumaniGeneris/pseuds/HostisHumaniGeneris
Summary: After Antarctica, they'd meet up.  It was a bit of sport for them, one that was not nearly as violent as the one he'd played at when they first met, but far more satisfying for them both.





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainellie/gifts).



Lex sat on the edge of the mesa looking down.  It had been a long, tiring climb and the blazing Arizona sun was making her sweat buckets.  He always picked the hottest places.  She took a swig of water from her canteen, looking at the gorgeous vista of orange rock formations dotted with scrubby vegetation. 

The sibilant clicking behind her made her hairs stand on edge, and she got to her feet and smiled.  A shimmering distortion, like the heat haze on a highway in summertime, approached.  She drained the rest of her canteen and got to her feet.  The haze flickered and there he was, all seven feet of him.  There was a hissing as he disconnected wiring from his helmet.

He always made a big show of removing it, dropping the cannon from his shoulder and then gripping the mask with both hands.  She let him; something told him trying to press the advantage while his hands were occupied wouldn’t piss him off.  She didn’t fear him, but she didn’t want to offend him, either.

His mask hit the ground and he ran two clawed fingers against the scar on his brow, and she did the same to her matching scar. 

Then he spread his arms in a challenge and it was on.  They ran at one another, his big feet slapping the rock.  At the last second she ducked and rolled out of the way, than scrambled backwards when a big open hand came down.  She kicked at the arm, not seriously worried that her steel toed boot actually hurt the big lug.

It was a game between the two of them.  He liked fighting, she liked climbing.  So, they’d worked out how things would go—he knew enough English to make it work.  Rules were simple; if he could wrestle her out of her clothes, he was on top.  If she managed to pin him at all, she was.  He figured he’d be sporting about it.

Cocky bastard had a winning streak she was going to break.

She ducked a massive swing of his and tried to slip around behind him to kick at the back of his knee, but his other hand clamped on her shoulder and lifted her up.  He held her against him, one arm looped across her chest, while the other grabbed the waistband of her pants and tugged.  The fabric yielded with an audible rip.  He continued to hold onto her, clawed fingers running between her legs, against her underwear.  She elbowed him in the chest and he trilled enthusiastically before dropping her on her feet and backing off.

She gave an exasperated sigh as she examined the state of her jeans.  She always brought extra clothes for their game, but she was doing everything she could to telegraph annoyance that he’d gotten metaphorical first blood.  She was even more annoyed as she had to unlace and kick off her boots in order to step out of the ruined pair of pants—he’d gotten her down to her shirt, underwear, and socks already.

He clicked, hungry look in his eye.

Finally getting out of her pants, she spread her arms, mimicking his earlier challenge.  He bore down at her like a freight train, and she waited until the last possible moment to sidestep, throwing a kick with the heel of her foot to his lower leg for good measure.

So the game went on. 

She lost her shirt and panties to him in fairly short order; he had simply grabbed the front of her shirt and yanked during one of her dodges, then once when she failed to get out of arms reach he pinned her facedown with one hand, yanked her underwear down with the other, then for good measure swatted her ass with an open palm before standing and letting her get back up.  She’d landed a few ineffectual strikes and had ducked out of the way of the big lug way too many times.

She was down to her sports bra now—he didn’t seem to count socks and she wasn’t particularly interested in arguing, and he could smell the proverbial blood in the water.  She was practically soaked with sweat, tired out and he was so much bigger and stronger.

He also had not noticed that as she scrambled around on the mesa, she’d been pulling a line, she’d looped between two stakes she’d pounded into the mesa face taut—she didn’t like defacing the rock, but the damage was minor.  He’d erred in giving her time to prepare the ground.  It wasn’t _necessarily_ fair, but they’d never agreed she _couldn’t_ do that.

On his next charge, he hit the rope… and it snapped.  He hadn’t tripped like Lex had hoped, but he was off balance.  Only for a split second, but he was off balance.  Lex swallowed and charged at him.  She hit him hard, slamming her shoulder into the side of his knee.  He let out a confused bellow, and fell.  Before he could get back up, she crawled atop him, planting her hands on his shoulders.

He let out an annoyed harrumph, then laid still.  She reached out and stroked his scar and smiled.  She stood, and he propped himself up on his elbows to watch her.  She peeled her bra off and let it drop to the ground next to his head, observing the way his eyes tracked it down.  When she retrieved part of the rope she’d use to trip him, he obligingly crossed his arms together at the wrist and let him tie them together—he could snap it easily, but rules were rules.  She won, so she was in charge.

She knelt down between his legs.  She didn’t even need to move his loincloth out of the way; she’d had his full attention probably as soon as the first time he laid his big hand on her.  She stroked him, and a low rumbling issued from his throat.  She worked him slowly to the edge—she knew by the way one of his hands was scraping the back of the other, the sounds he made, he was close.

So she stopped.

He howled as if she had stabbed him.  She waited a few minutes, letting her hand drift between her legs, fingers slipping into herself.  She liked doing this; play with him until he could barely stand it, play with herself to drive him crazier, play with him.

He was panting when she finally grew bored of teasing him and crawled atop him.  She hissed as she lowered herself down—he was gigantic and she preferred taking it slow and building up speed.  She was tired, sore, soaked with sweat, and she was not going to stop.

When they came, their cries echoed.

She laid panting on top of him, raising and falling with every breath he took.  He snapped the ropes and draped his big arms around her.  He traced her scar with his thumb and purred.  He’d let her get dressed, drop her off at Flagstaff, and she’d pick the next site for the game.  “Good game.”

“Good game” he growled in reply.


End file.
